


A Beacon of Beginnings

by blahrandomblah



Category: Sterek - Fandom, game of thrones, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Other, War, westeros au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:18:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahrandomblah/pseuds/blahrandomblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter of House Hale has orchestrated a coup among the Wardens of the Westeros (the Stilinskis in the North, the Martins in the South, the Argents in the West, and the Hales of the East). Once crowned, Peter forms a small council and names his nephew and only living male family member, Ser Derek of House Hale, as his heir. Lord Jon Stilinski is named Hand of the King, and his son, Stiles, heir to Winterfell, chooses to squire for the newly named prince. As is wont in times of rebellion, Derek is dragged into the perilous game of thrones and Stiles is along for the ride. When the descendant of a former ruling family marries a Lordling of Westeros, all of the seven kingdoms are thrown into chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derek

The road had been long and hard from Highgarden, and the southern lords had been insufferable. Lucky enough for the prince’s envoy, the Roseroad had been free of problems on their ride back to King’s Landing. The prince was of the strong, quiet sort and had grown tire of the hustle and bustle of his companions’ conversations. He road along a few hundred feet ahead of the party with his squire and a member of the kingsguard.

“Ser Derek, we should not get too much further ahead,” squeaked his young squire. “Th-that is if it pleases you.” Derek didn’t know why the squire was so nervous around him all the time.

“It’s _Prince_ Derek, now,” Ser Jordan corrected the younger of the prince’s co-riders. Ser Jordan of House Parrish was a first-class knight, member of the kingsguard, and Derek’s sworn protector, not to mention the prince’s finest and oldest friend.

“It’s fine, Jordan; I’m only becoming accustomed to the title myself,” Derek admitted, truthfully.

Derek was the only son of the Lady Talia of House Hale and an unknown lordling of the Vale. The Hales had been rulers in the Vale since the fall of House Arryn.  Lady Talia was so well-respected that her brother, King Peter, had named her Warden of the East upon his ascension to the Iron Throne. Ascension was one word for it; a well-planned and executed coup was a better word.

Ser Peter Hale, Lord Protector of the Vale and Warden of the East, had spent five years in secret correspondence with the Wardens of the North, South, and West. The Stilinskis of Winterfell, the Martin’s of Highgarden, and the Argents of Casterly Rock had called their banners less than six moons ago and attacked the Blake stronghold in King’s Landing. A few of the Blakes attempted escape to Dragonstone, but the McCalls of the Iron Islands had sailed down and cut them off, securing Dragonstone for the Hales as well.

The fighting ended as abruptly as it had started. The commoners had no love for the Blakes—who were sorcerers opposed to any gods, old or new. By the time the gates to Kings Landing had been breached, the Hales and their supporters found the Blakes being attacked by poor folk, peasants, and even whores and doomsayers. When Peter sat upon the Iron Throne, cheers erupted that could have woken the sleeping sand snakes in Dorne.

King Peter had ordered the deaths of the entire small council save for the Master of Coin, Lord Jackson Whittemore, and the master of whispers, Lord Danny Mahealani. He granted his Wardens of the West, Lord Chris Argent, a seat on the small council, named Lord Jon Stilinski Hand of the King, and urged the Conclave of the Citadel to name Maester Deaton as Grand Master—an act they obliged. He granted a final seat on the small council to his nephew and only living male relative, Ser Derek Hale. Upon the urging of Maester Deaton, the small council convinced King Peter to officially name Ser Derek as his heir apparent, since he had no legitimate children of his own. And, in his stead, Derek convinced his mother to name his sister, the Lady Laura, as heir to the Vale.

“Yes, but if your own squire cannot remember your station, then how can we expect your men and the smallfolk to remember it?” asked Jordan.

“If you think anyone in the next three hundred years will forget the coup my uncle orchestrated, then you are not worthy of the white cloak you wear,” Derek reprimanded his friend. The Maesters in the Citadel were already busy adding this account to the books of history and conquest in Westeros.

“Yes, _Ser_ ,” Jordan said. They both laughed. Jordan could always get him to laugh, but few others could. The prince was not very open to most people.

“Gods above! Did you ever imagine we would be here?” Derek asked.

Jordan smiled. “Anyone who has ever seen you at joust or in melee knew you would do something great one day. You’ve only had seventeen name days, led the siege on the Mud Gate, and were the first hostile to enter Maegor’s Keep in over 200 years. Yeah, I had pictured it.”

“You think too highly of me,” the prince insisted. “I had 7,000 riders at my command. They did the work. Not me.” _And so many of them died for our cause_. Derek had personally written letters to any children who lost fathers that day under his command. It took a week, but he felt better afterward.

“7,000 people don’t just happen into King’s Landing, my prince,” Derek’s squire objected. “It took a strong and wise commander. That’s why your uncle placed you at the Mud Gate and why he named you heir. The people love you. You ensure a Hale dynasty in Westeros.”

Derek laughed loudly. _He’s funny._

“He speaks the truth, my lord,” Jordan agreed. “Westeros has lacked a true leader for many years. Targaryens, Baratheons, Lannisters, Starks, Targaryens, Yukimuras, Targaryens, and Blakes—they were all horrible.”

“I beg your pardon, Jordan…I mean, Ser Parrish…or your kingsguardness…Ser Jordan, but you forgot the One-Day King,” the squire interjected. “There was another Baratheon before the Blakes killed him on the new Sept of Snow at the old Tower of the Hand. Robert II. He was only king for a day, but he was king nonetheless.”

“You talk a lot, squire. What is your name again?” asked Ser Jordan.

“You would not be able to pronounce the name, Ser. My mother was Braavosi. Most people just call me Stiles…of House Stilinski, heir to Winterfell,” the squire explained.

“And why would the heir of Winterfell squire for anyone?” the kingsguardsman asked.

“It is simple, really. I learned under a well-educated Maester, but a very poor master-at-arms. If I am to govern and protect Winterfell one day, then I need to learn from the best. Do you know of a better knight than Ser Derek?” he asked. Then added, “Prince Derek, I mean.”

“I do not,” Ser Jordan admitted.

The prince had had enough of their compliments. “I could name fifty,” Derek said. “And plenty who are more experienced teachers.”

“Do it,” Jordan insisted.

Derek sighed. “Stiles father, Lord Stilinski, has won many tournaments and is rarely matched at swords. Lord Chris Argent could kill me with his bow before I even reached for my sword. The Knight of Flowers from the Age of Many Kings is fabled to be the greatest knight of all time. Prince Darrin of Dorne makes his ancestor Prince Oberyn seem like an amateur. There are Braavosi, Dothraki, and Tyroshi who are all more skilled than I am. You don’t have to exaggerate my deeds. Historians will do that for you.”

“Even my father says you would defeat him in one-on-one combat, not to mention how much he commends your vision for large-scale battle,” Stiles countered.

“You are not going to win this one, my prince,” Jordan agreed.

Derek stopped his horse. “You know, I rode ahead with you two to avoid all of the noise and chaos of the others. I could order you to join them.”

“But you will not,” Jordan said, knowingly.

“Do not presume to know…” Prince Derek began.

“Sers, a rider!” Stiles interrupted.

A rider bearing the sigil of House Hale, a white wolf on a background of navy, was approaching swiftly from the north. Prince Derek sped his destrier toward the oncoming knight. His squire and guard followed behind him.

“Ser Stevan! Has some trouble befallen King’s Landing?” Derek asked. Ser Stevan was the head of the King’s personal guard from the Vale. If he left the King’s side, it meant trouble. Derek knew this.

The knight shook his head. “My prince, it pains me to inform you, but we received a raven from the Vale.”

Ravens were the carriers of bad tidings. “My mother?”

“She was down inspecting improvements to the Gates of the Moon and a group of Stonecrows attacked,” Ser Stevan explained. “Your mother’s guards took care of them quickly, but not before your mother took a spear to the leg.”

Derek’s stomach was in his throat. He could not show weakness, as his entire caravan had caught up with them. “A wound to the leg is not fatal, Ser Stevan. I am sure she will make a swift recovery. My mother is a strong woman.”

Ser Stevan bowed in acknowledgement. “She requests your presence nonetheless. She has asked your uncle for a garrison to mount an offensive against the mountain clans. They grow braver in these times of regime change. Your uncle seems…dare I say, hesitant,” he admitted.

Derek took a deep breath. “Then it seems I must convince him to act. My mother would not request help if it were not a dire need. The Vale secures its own.” Derek turned to his company. “Who among you will stand with me against the unruly clans of the mountain?” he shouted.

The air was abuzz with the sound of swords being unsheathed, men screaming their assent, and horses whinnying at the excitement.

“Then we make haste to King’s Landing!” the prince ordered as he turned his destrier and sped up the Roseroad toward his uncle’s keep.


	2. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the future heir of the Iron Islands.

No one despised the sea or the lifestyle of the Iron Islands more than their future heir, Scott of House McCall. His grandsire, Lord Zak, had won the Iron Islands over 50 years ago when he was barely two and twenty. His father, Ser Rafe McCall, had waited until Scott’s ninth name day to give him over to the Drowned God. Scott’s drowning didn’t go as planned, and he was left with weakened lungs after he was revived.

Many on the Iron Islands hailed Scott as the future savior of the islands since the Drowned God wanted to claim him for the sea. The next year grew doubts among the ironmen because Scott became notably afraid of the water. His hatred for the water ran so deep that his father had him sent to live with his cousin Lord Jon Stilinski of Winterfell. Lord Jon’s father, Michael, and Ser Rafe’s mother, Brenda, were siblings and the children of Brandon Stilinski and Lynda Umber.

Scott was of the same age of his second cousin Stiles, and grew close to him during the four years he spent in Winterfell. The maester there had spent the time trying to cure Scott of his fear of the sea and strengthen his lungs. It had worked better than Ser Rafe McCall had ever hoped, and Scott was given captainship of his first long boat on his fourteenth name day. However, the sea never settled into Scott’s bones the way it did the ironmen. He still felt more comfortable on a horse than the unsteady, rocky deck of a boat. He was capable enough to earn the respect of his crew, however inwardly uncomfortable he may have been.

Scott’s younger brother, Marc, was much better suited to life at sea. Although he was only a year younger, he had spent more years than Scott at sea. He sailed closer to rocky shores and dared storms Scott would have turned away from. Many times, Scott had considered how much better of an heir Marc would be.

Scott’s own dream was to be a member of the kingsguard. An ironman had never been granted a place among the king’s most dedicated protectors. Scott wanted to be the first. At Winterfell, he had trained with a master-at-arms. Even though the old man had not been a superb teacher, Scott picked up quickly and was easily on his way to becoming the best swordsman of the Iron Islands. After a few more years of muscle growth, he would begin entering tournaments to earn himself a name. If he were chosen for the kingsguard, all his rights to land and title would be passed on to his brother. They would both be happier for it. His father would not hear of it, though.

“No son of the Islands will serve any man, neither king nor peasant,” Rafe McCall had shouted when Scott admitted his plan to his father on his sixteenth name day.

 “Think of the honor this would bring to the Iron Islands, father,” he protested, “to our family. House McCall would go down forever as the first of the ironborn to serve the realm with such prestige!”

“What you call honor, I call shame,” his father declared. “You would be little more than a walking shield, honor-bound to die for some royal scum.”

Scott threw his arms in the air. “You helped secure the throne for the Hales!”

“And who will be king tomorrow? The Frey’s? The Martin’s? God forbid, the Argents? No. I forbid this course of action. You will continue to captain _Iron Lady_ and assume command of the Iron Fleet once I ascend to my seastone chair,” his father commanded.

“That’s not fa…” Scott objected.

“ENOUGH!” Rafe shouted, grabbing Scott by the throat. “You will return to _Iron Lady_ and lead an attack against the pirates attacking the Stony Shore or, since the Drowned God wants you so badly, I will happily give you to him.”

Scott glared at his father.

“Am I understood?” his father asked.

Scott nodded curtly.

“On the Iron Islands, we answer our superiors with words or steel. Now, am I understood,” his father repeated.

“You are,” Scott answered.

His father finally released the grip on Scott’s throat. Scott retreated from his father’s solar before caressing the sore spot on his throat. He stopped to lean against a wall of the castle to let his breathing settle. His lungs worked well most of the time, weakened as they were, but his father’s attack had deprived them of too much oxygen. As he began to walk, a hand grabbed the crook of his arm and pulled him into a hidden crook behind a tapestry of Balon Greyjoy. Scott reached for his sword, but recognized the voice that spoke to him.

“You would truly give up all rights to the seastone chair?” Marc asked.

Scott smiled. “You really do know the ins and outs of this castle better than anyone, brother. My discussion with father was supposed to be a private one.”

Marc laughed and hit Scott on the arm. “Well, it wasn’t. So, answer my question.”

“Yes, I would give it up. I hate the sea; you know this,” Scott whispered, annoyed.

“Then let me help you,” Marc offered. “Let me sail to the Stony Shore in your stead, aboard the _Iron Lady_ , and smuggle yourself out of here while father sleeps.”

“Where would I go, Marc? Who would dare hide me from our father?” Scott wondered.

“If you get far enough away, your own sword will hide you from father. You’re a better swordsman than most of the ironmen. But, if you’re looking for a place to make a living, I’m sure Lord Stilinski would welcome you once more in Winterfell. There is no love between our father and him,” Marc pointed out.

Scott laughed. “Winterfell is the first place father would look. He’ll have men there right behind me.”

Marc was quiet for a moment before he said, “Then sail the long way around. Don’t sail for Seagard and take the Kingsroad. Instead, sail down to the Arbor and stay south of Dorne. Sail up through the Stepstones and follow the Narrow Sea to White Harbor or the Dreadfort before riding to Winterfell. By then, father will have already received word that you were not in Winterfell. He will search far and wide, and you will be exactly where he knows you are not.”

Scott considered this. “You are smarter than father gives you credit for. He believes you are more brawn than brain.”

“Father is an ignorant fool. Mother knows it. You know it. Even he knows it at heart. Why do you think he keeps mother so close? She’s the smart one,” Marc asserted.

Scott sighed. “How do I leave our mother?”

“By knowing how proud she will be when you finally don the white cloak,” Marc said.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but you have to get to the _Iron Lady_. Father will be watching her depart from his solar,” Scott urged his brother. “He won’t be pleased with you,” he added turning to enter the hallway. He turned around and embraced his brother. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Marc assured him.

By the time the sun was sinking, Scott saw the blue sail with the black squid of House McCall sailing north toward the Stony Shore. His own small chest of belongings was packed and he had collected all of his hidden stores of coin into a pouch at his hip. He stepped aboard a Lysene ship, _Black Swan_ , and started his journey south.

The captain was wider than any man Scott had ever known. If someone had told him he weighed as much as three horses, Scott would have believed them. His dark skin was wildly contrasted by his flowing white beard. His bald head was covered in a hat of outlandishly purple silk.

He walked Scott to the cabin he had purchased for the voyage. “If you need anything, Master McCall, just ask for me and Baldhor Saan will be more than happy to oblige,” the captain offered.

It struck Scott as odd that the sellsail knew his name, but he wrote that off to the Lysene’s knowledge of the Iron Islands—he was a familiar face here. So, Scott chose to believe that. Until he opened the door to his cabin and found it occupied by his mother.


End file.
